


Fly Me To The Moon

by casstayinmyass



Category: Ghost World (2001)
Genre: Awkward Dates, F/M, Fluff, Insecurity, Kissing, Meet-Cute, Older Man/Younger Woman, Romantic Friendship, Steve Buscemi - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 08:12:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16991283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casstayinmyass/pseuds/casstayinmyass
Summary: You find a friend (and maybe something more) in a lonely, strangely handsome man who happens to be in the same situation as you are.





	Fly Me To The Moon

You glance up at the clock, and sigh. He wasn’t going to show up. The guy you thought could be your next boyfriend just completely blew you off. You should stop getting your hopes up with these assholes.

You do a quick sweep around the cafe, and stop curiously on a middle aged, interesting guy who’s working on a vanilla milkshake alone. He intrigues you.

You get up, and saunter over.

“Is this seat taken?” you ask of the other side of the booth. The man sighs in resignation.

“Not currently.”

You sit down, and take a sip of your shake. He does the same as he sort of angles himself away from you, every now and then casting suspicious looks over at you. Whenever you meet his gaze though, he quickly looks down or away, only to keep frowning at you when he’s sure you’re not looking.

“What’s your name?”

He’s taken off guard. “W-what’s my name?”

“No, his name,” you mutter. He gives you a deadpan look.

“My name’s Seymour.”

“Seymour?”

“Yup, that’s me.”

“Hm,” you take another long sip of your milkshake. “So what’s your deal?”

He looks over again, as if surprised you’re still here. “Excuse me?”

“What’s your deal, Seymour, why’re you here?”

He frowns. “I… felt like having a milkshake?”

You stare at him. “Really? Honestly?”

“Is there something wrong with that?”

“There wouldn’t be, if it wasn’t bullshit.”

“Jesus, fine!” He folds his napkin dejectedly. “I was stood up by my date.”

“Huh!” you exclaim, “Me too.”

He stares at you in alarm. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.”

“No… a pretty young girl like you? Aren’t boys like… falling over themselves for you?”

“In an ideal world.”

He huffs. “You don’t need an ideal world to know that you’re pretty. Nobody should be standing you up. I know I wouldn’t be if I was your age.”

“If you were my age?” you raise an eyebrow, and he hesitates.

“Yeah.”

“Then you’d be one in a million,” you sigh. “All these guys my age don’t know shit about making a woman feel good.”

He shifts in his seat. “Oh yeah?”

You smirk, seeing how uncomfortable he looks. He’s kind of cute.

“Well, nobody should be standing you up either.”

He waves his hand. “Me, I would expect. I would stand me up. I mean look at me, I’m a mess.”

You tilt your head. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay? Wow, good to know. Thank you.”

You giggle. “Seymour, what are you doing today?”

He opens his mouth. “Uh… I, uh, had an appointment to get my shoes fitted for better arch support at 1 PM down at the old–”

“Correction, you’re spending the day with your new date,” you grin, and get up, motioning for his hand. “Come on.”

“My date?! Where… where am I going? With you? Who I just met?”

“Not to your shoe appointment,” you reply. “And my name’s (y/n).” You take his arm, leading him out.

A short drive later, you’re at the local amusement park.

“Uh huh. Nope,” Seymour says, already starting to turn, but you pull him back.

“We both need to cheer up after our dates stood us up! Nothing better than popping balloons and sharing kettle corn to do that.”

He groans a little, but follows.

The first thing you two do is head over to the tilt a whirl.

“No,” Seymour frowns, and you groan again. He gives in, rolls his eyes, and gets on with you. After, he looks a little green, so you walk over to the games– particularly, skeeball.

“I don’t wanna brag, but uh… I was quite the skeeball player back when I was your age,” he chuckles, “Let me show you how it’s done.”

“You were a skeeball player?” you laugh. “You’re such a nerd.” He frowns a little, but you take his arm, wrapping it around you and giving him a ball. “Teach me.” With a slight blush, he brings your arm down with his, and you toss the ball, getting a 0. He scratches his head.

“I, uh… may be a little out of practice.”

You walk on to the soda stand, and look at him with puppy eyes. Falling for them, he fishes out some cash, and gets you a soda. You wrap your lips around the straw, and he looks away. You begin to smile.

“What is it?” you ask him.

“What’s what?” he responds.

“You’re staring at me.”

“Am I?”

You give him a little wink, and take his hand. “Can we go back to your place?”

He blinks. “You just met me.”

“I feel like getting drunk,” you shrug, “We should drown our sorrows.”

“What?!”

“You heard me. You got booze?”

“I… I think I do.”

So, that settles it. You’re on the way home, and you eventually pull up at Seymour’s apartment, getting out.

“I, uh… I don’t–” he starts to say, but you cut him off with your lips, pressing him back against the front door. His eyes widen, and he pushes you away.

“Hey, hey, hey! You’re… you’re young enough to be my daughter!”

“But I’m not,” you grin, and kiss him again. This time, he realizes he wants it too, and he lets it happen, gently bringing his hands up to cup your face. The kiss is sweet, soft, with no real need behind it from either one except the need for companionship. Your lips meet again and again, searching for something you both can’t find, and finally, Seymour pulls back, looking down at you seriously with a hand resting on your shoulder. A happy buzz is running through you, and you smile contentedly. “You got nice lips.”

He huffs. “Thanks. You too.”

“Now. About that booze…”

He takes you inside, taking your coat and hanging it up for you, and locks the door. His roommate isn’t home apparently, and he leads you down to a small room with a bunch of posters and records.

“Woah,” you comment.

“Pretty lame?” he bites his lip.

“Pretty awesome,” you correct, “I could spend all day in here.”

“We could… spend all night in here… you know, if you don’t have to be anywhere,” he rubs the back of his neck. You drape yourself over his sofa, and grin.

“Why thank you, Seymour. Don’t mind if I do stay.”

He chuckles a little in disbelief, then turns around, opening a small cabinet. With a look inside, he hems and haws. “I have one bottle of 10 year old Scotch.”

You shrug. “Pop the cork.”

“That’s not how Scotch works–”

“Seymour!”

“Alright, alright.”

He takes the lid off, and takes out two glasses he has stashed away. You take yours and both of you do a cheers.

“To shitty men,” you proclaim, and he sighs, beyond giving a damn.

“To shitty men.”

You both drink, and Seymour starts a record. Fly Me To The Moon starts playing, and you start to dance. Seymour just watches, and you hold out your hand.

“Join me.”

“I don’t, eh, dance,” he chuckles nervously. You respect that.

“Alright.” You continue to dance, and he continues to watch with some fond fascination. Finally, you take the needle off when the song is done, and sit back on the couch.

“Turn on the TV?”

“Why?”

You shrug. He does so.

About an hour later, you’ve got what’s left of the 10 year old Scotch in your fist as your chest rises and falls with sleep, head resting on your new date’s lap. Seymour is above you, softly stroking your hair, as he watches Robert Mitchum hijack a river boat in Cape Fear. His eyes start to close too, and you two fall asleep together there in Seymour’s little record room together, comforted by the fact that everything is, in fact, okay.


End file.
